The Traitor of St Giles

Chapter Four

Once they arrived in Exeter Sir Gilbert began to wonder where their next destination should be. The noise was deafening, the city heaving. It was a Friday, and the whole place seemed full of farmers and other peasants who had turned up to sell their produce at the market or to buy provisions. Sir Gilbert dropped from his stallion and gave the reins to a boy. Glancing at the teeming marketplace in the Cathedral precinct, he saw it was packed with what looked like the whole of Christianity. Men and women shouted their wares, gaily dressed girls bustled about offering drink, beggars shuffled on crippled legs, piteously calling for alms; a child with a belly distended by starvation squeaked for food at his mother’s feet, a scrawny woman who sat with her back against a wall feebly watching passers-by with eyes made immense with hunger; Sir Gilbert threw the pair some coins.

He paused at the ring, where a massive bull was trampling a dog, spraying blood and gore with defiant tosses of its head. Bulls had to be baited before death to tenderise their flesh, but Sir Gilbert was confident this hoary beast would have iron bands for muscles: even after baiting and hanging he would be inedible.

An official jostled him, hurrying by with two scruffy men carrying long staves; behind them, a man was led by a rope, bawling his innocence – he was a tavern-keeper found selling short measures. There would be little sympathy for him here. Sir Gilbert’s dogs both lunged at the little procession, but he had put them on leashes as he entered the city and now he hauled them back. They were unsettled in so large a crowd and the knight decided to find somewhere to sit and rest.

Overhead, flags fluttered gently in the breeze. Fresh air was certainly welcome, for the high walls of the city trapped the air within and Sir Gilbert’s nostrils were assailed with the stench. Sweat from the men and women all about him vied with animal and human excrement and the persistent tang of urine, thickened by the reek of putrefaction from the tanners on Exe Island. Fanning the air disgustedly, Sir Gilbert bought a bunch of herbs and held it beneath his nose in a vain attempt to drown out the surrounding odours.

At Nobles Inn, Sir Gilbert paid off the boy and he and William ordered ale, sitting at a bench outside, the leather saddlebag containing the sacks at Sir Gilbert’s feet. Merry sat at his side, but Aylmer rolled over and was soon snoring gently.

‘Where to now?’ William asked, glancing up at the sun.

Sir Gilbert emptied his pot and waved at the surly tavern-keeper for more. There was no point in concealing their destination. ‘We try to find out where the Lord is. He may well be here or at Oakhampton. Maybe up at Tiverton.’

‘You’re planning on seeing Lord de Courtenay?’ William asked, aghast.

‘Yes.’ Sir Gilbert held out his pot to be refilled and cast a quick look at the sailor.

William was blank for a moment, but nodded. ‘I could ask about: find where he is, if you want.’

‘You know this city? I didn’t think the river was navigable.’

William shrugged. ‘It’s not got its own port, but down at the head of the estuary there’s another town, Topsham. Ships delivering goods for Exeter go there, and sometimes after we’ve paid the customs we load up smaller craft to ferry them up the Exe to the city. I’ve been here several times.’

‘Good. In that case, ask your friends where we might find de Courtenay and his retinue. I shall be here waiting.’

William stood, glanced up and down the narrow thoroughfare, and strolled off towards Cook Row. Sir Gilbert meanwhile ordered himself a coffin filled with fish, this being Friday and a fast day, and munched on the pie. Once they were outside the city he was determined to rest in a river and clean himself. His flesh itched from dried sweat, and he was unpleasantly aware that he had grown verminous. There was an unpleasant tingling at his armpits and groin as if creatures were scuttling.

But he had other things to occupy his mind.

No man would entrust a large fortune to an emissary without trying to ensure its protection. But the two men Despenser had sent to accompany Sir Gilbert were dead or wounded before they had left London. When William Small showed himself willing to join him, Sir Gilbert had been grateful. On a ship no secrets could be kept; Sir Gilbert had assumed that William had heard of the money and chose to stay with Sir Gilbert to see that his master’s bribe was protected. But he was no fool and now he considered once more the other possibility. William plainly hadn’t thought Sir Gilbert ever intended delivering the chest – he could see that now. He obviously believed Sir Gilbert was going to steal it for himself, and if so, William was determined to share in the profits.

The knight sat back and eased himself into a comfortable position, cradling his pot in his large hand, resting it on his flat stomach. Merry looked at him, then scratched idly at an ear and lay down, chin on paws, but watching every passer-by.

Sir Gilbert smiled down at his dog and patted the tawny flank. If William wanted to rob him, he would find it very difficult.

Two days later, Philip Dyne blinked as he left the safe confines of the church. The sun was blazing in a clear blue sky, painful to his eyes after so many days locked in the dark. He had to shield them with a hand. The gloom of the church was preferable.

As he blinked, wincing at the pain, colours appeared before him; brilliant hues and stunning shades. His head ached with the magnificence of the greens of grass and leaves, the brightness of coats and tunics, dull-coloured hose for the poorer, parti-coloured reds and blues for the rich. His legs buckled beneath him and he was struck with a feeling of vertigo as he saw the faces ranged before him.

‘Get your hand off me!’ Father Abraham snarled as Philip grabbed at his sleeve to stop himself falling. Father Abraham snatched his arm away and strode on to the Coroner’s side by the little gate.

The waiting crowd stood silently at the other side of the fence and Philip eyed them with a sense of doom. If they decided to attack him, the thin palings would be no protection. There was an occasional curse uttered in his direction, but for the most part they stood quietly, waiting. Oddly he found that their loathing pricked at his pride, gave him a little strength, and he willed himself on, alone, dressed only in his threadbare tunic and coat, a pilgrim’s cross stitched to his breast. The felon about to flee the scene of his crime.

Father Abraham, at the gate to the churchyard, held up his hand and scowled at the folk about him until they were silent, awed by the slim, regal figure clothed in the garb of a priest. When their muttering had died away, he beckoned to Philip and snapped, ‘Come here, Dyne.’

He could not watch Dyne approach. It was disgusting that the pervert should have entered his church at all, let alone dare to claim sanctuary and stay inside for so long. Quite deplorable. Better that the mob should catch him. It was vile that he, a priest, should be expected to give such a creature food. It was enough to make one sick! He would order the sexton to see the whole sanctuary scrubbed clean to remove Dyne’s foul contamination.

It was at times like this that he wished he had not joined the Church and instead had joined a warrior Order, something like the Knights of St John. Better to fight for God than to pander to felons.

The crowd agreed with his view; he could see that at a single glance. There were some who were merely observers: farmers and others from outside town come to visit the market who had spotted the huddle at the gate and strolled over to investigate; others were locals who had gathered out of mild interest to see what the sanctuary-seeker looked like before he fled. These were no trouble; it was the others who gave Father Abraham concern.

Andrew Carter was at the back, a large, grossly proportioned man, red of face, with fleshy lips and heavy jowls, dark hair under his velvet hat, and a vindictive frown twisting his features. Next to him was the merchant Nicholas Lovecok, Carter’s brother-in-law, a weakly-looking man with unnaturally bright eyes in his pale face and little hair on his bare head. The sight made the priest purse his lips. He could see Lovecok’s lips moving, and he held his hat in his hand, twisting it and turning it as he prayed, no doubt, for the felon’s painful death. About these two was a small gathering of what looked like the dregs of the nearby alehouses. Rough, drink-coarsened men, some still with jugs or pots in their hands, were watching the solitary figure with ill-concealed hatred, measuring interest or vague bafflement, the degree of concentration depending upon the quantity of ale they had already drunk.

It was understandable, Father Abraham thought. Even the expression of sheer loathing on Coroner Harlewin le Poter’s face was justified. No one liked the murderer of a young wench.

Coroner Harlewin’s face was bleak as Philip approached the low picket fence. He held up his hand both to halt the felon and silence the crowd, which had begun to murmur.

‘Quiet!’ he thundered, glaring about him, then crooked his finger at Philip. ‘Come closer, boy. You can’t reach the fu–…’ he swallowed the automatic expletive when he felt Father Abraham stiffen ‘…Um Gospels from there.’

Father Abraham hadn’t missed his near-lapse and made a mental note to demand a severe penance. The Coroner was a brutish knight, low-born and with the manners of a hog. He disgusted Father Abraham.

The Coroner continued, ‘We all know why we’re here. This man, Philip Dyne, apprentice to the spicer John Sherman, murdered a young girl from this town: Joan Carter. The posse nearly caught him, but he managed to escape by claiming sanctuary within the church. Unless someone saw him outside the church during his imprisonment, or saw him eating anything other than the water and bread supplied by the priest here, he can abjure the realm…’ He peered at the crowd, a hopeful tone creeping into his voice. ‘Did anyone see him outside?’

Father Abraham was sure that this was not a part of the normal procedure for an abjuration; the Coroner was tempting the audience to bear false witness. ‘He did not leave,’ he said sharply. ‘I was there all the time. If he had left I would have known.’

Harlewin grunted without satisfaction. ‘In that case,’ he mumbled, then cleared his throat. ‘Very well, Father, let him confess. Come here, Dyne!’

Philip Dyne cast a look at the people before him, and Father Abraham saw him shiver. Pathetic! he thought. A typical peasant. He jerked his head, saying shortly, ‘You heard him, Dyne. Come here and make your confession. If you don’t, you cannot abjure; that’s the law.’

‘I admit that I took the girl, um…’

‘Go on, you bastard! Tell us all about it, how you raped my daughter and slaughtered her!’ roared a voice. Father Abraham turned and made a swift cutting movement with his hand.

‘Enough! Carter, be still! I will not have men here incited to murder to the ruin of their immortal souls – no, and you must not risk your own, either. You regret the loss of your daughter, but you forget yourself; this place is proof of God’s mercy, and this lad may be able to serve God’s purpose if he contritely and honestly confesses. Don’t presume to question His judgement. There has been a terrible crime committed, don’t let’s make things worse.’

Philip, eyes closed, made his confession, shivering slightly. ‘I killed her. I met her down near the river where we always met and wanted her body. When she refused me, I took her anyway and strangled her to make sure she couldn’t tell anyone. I sincerely regret it, and beg God’s forgiveness. As I live this is true.’

The Coroner nodded and Father Abraham turned to his sexton who carried the immense book. Taking it, Father Abraham bowed his head over it, making the sign of the cross, then held it out. Philip Dyne swallowed and rested his hand on the cover with a wide-eyed, wondering fear.

Harlewin then spoke. His voice, filled with the authority of his position, carried over the whole crowd with ease, scaring the rooks in the oaks and elms of the churchyard and sending them fluttering upwards, chattering and squawking to each other.

‘Philip Dyne, you have remained in the sanctuary of this church for forty days. You have made a free confession of your guilt, and now you must make your oath of abjuration. Repeat after me: “I, Philip Dyne…” ’

‘I, Philip Dyne…’

‘ “Do swear to leave this realm…” ’

Father Abraham saw Philip Dyne’s cheeks were running with tears.

‘Never to return…’

The book felt heavier in his hands, as if Dyne was leaning on it for support.

‘Unless with the permission of the King or his heirs…’

Using the Gospels in that manner was irreverent. Father Abraham considered snapping at him to refrain.

‘I will hasten by the most direct road to a port…’

No. He decided not to: it would only create more fuss. Better that this ceremony should be completed swiftly and this beggarly creature should finally be ejected from the town.

‘Never leaving the King’s highway…’

Father Abraham saw the young man swallow again as if he feared the next words.

‘On pain of arrest as a felon and being beheaded instantly.’

There was a slight quiver in his voice. Good, thought Father Abraham. Perhaps the immensity of his crime is driven home to him at last.

‘And on arriving I shall seek diligently for a passage across the sea.’

‘Very well!’ said the Coroner and stood back as Father Abraham passed the precious book back to the patiently waiting sexton. ‘I order that this man be allowed to leave the town by the road to Bickleigh, thence to Exeter, from whence he must find a ship to remove him from King Edward’s lands. He must not remain at any inn or vill for more than one night. At Exeter’s port he must seek diligently for a passage, delaying only one tide. If there is no ship when he arrives, he must walk into the sea up to his knees each day in demonstration of his willingness to cross it, and if he has still failed after forty days he must take sanctuary again at the port.’

He stopped and fixed Dyne with a stern, unsympathetic eye. ‘His goods are all forfeit: he can take with him only a wooden cross and a bowl. Nothing else.’ He pointed southwards towards Crediton. ‘Go! Don’t delay, but leave the country as soon as you possibly can.’

Philip Dyne’s head hung low; the crowd began hissing again, jostling forward, a young boy on his father’s shoulder cried out as an inaccurate stone hit his cheek, raking a long scratch. Harlewin le Poter’s head shot round, and seeing the boy weep, a hand touching the bleeding scar, he swept out his sword. Two men-at-arms thrust their way through to his side, their long polearms swinging like heavy, iron-shod clubs, prodding away any who came too close.

‘Back, you lot!’ the Coroner roared. ‘Serfs and bastard whoresons, the lot of you! Back, I said: give him space, in the King’s name – and no more rocks. If I see any of you with one you’ll be in the castle’s stocks so fast your feet will burn – is that clear? The man’s not to be pilloried, he’s abjured.’

A thin gap appeared as reluctant, muttering people pulled away from each other.

‘That’s better. Now, felon, sod off! And never come back!’ the Coroner said. He shoved his sword away, then pushed Dyne along the channel, crossing his arms and watching.

At his side Father Abraham curled his lip. Watching Dyne scuff through the people, his head low, avoiding all the eyes on him, wincing and turning away when a man hawked and spat, the spittle running down his neck, Father Abraham muttered vindictively: ‘And if you should stray from the road so much as a single foot, I hope you will be seen and executed on the spot. God protect your executioner!’

In her room Matilda Carter chewed her lip and rubbed her hands together in a tortured near-frenzy. She didn’t know where her husband was, and she needed his support. Andrew Carter and Nicholas, her brother, had both left the house earlier with their horses without telling her where they were going. What was she to do? The murderer who had killed her child was escaping.

Until today she had known hope: that Dyne could be struck down in the church, that he might commit suicide, that someone might slay him as he went to abjure – but no! Even that small comfort was denied her. She must sit and tolerate his escape. Let him go without a murmur.

She wouldn’t – she couldn’t! There was a resolve within her. She wanted Joan to be avenged so that her only child could rest peacefully in her grave. Matilda walked to her chest and lifted the lid. Inside was Joan’s clothing from the day she had died. Matilda lifted it aside and reached beneath. Her hands closed upon her knife.

Tying it to her waist, she pulled out a green cloak and draped it over her shoulders before walking composedly out to the stableyard.